


Family Tradition

by mrstater



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 18:56:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrstater/pseuds/mrstater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon may be a Targaryen, but Sansa is determined he will celebrate his name day Stark-fashion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Family Tradition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [just_a_dram](https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_a_dram/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Thicker Than Blood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/364231) by [mrstater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrstater/pseuds/mrstater). 



The crust of sleep still clings to King Jon's eyelids when he shuffles out of his bedchamber and into the anteroom where he customarily breaks his fast. He presses thumb and forefinger to the outer edges of his eyes, squeezing them shut tight as he rubs across until he pinches the bridge of his nose where the last traces of the late night combined with an early morning throb, then blinks them open to rest blearily on the table.   
  
Where are the oatcakes? The boiled eggs? Sweet tomatoes, fried fresh off the vine? Bacon, burnt crispy black on the outside, but chewy and dripping salty grease on the inside? "Corn?" asks the raven aloud, flapping through the doorway of the bedchamber to perch on the back of one of the chairs.  
  
To Jon's relief a frothing pitcher of dark beer does stand atop the cloth, beside it the bowl of lemon wedges to squeeze into it, as the Lord Commander always took his morning drink. But apart from that, the only food on the table is a single plate of--  
  
"Lemon cakes?" he asks, his eyes raking up from the breakfast table to rest on the figure framed by the open door.   
  
Sansa stands tall in a gown of grey silk and Myrrish lace, the sheen of the fabric reflecting the candlelight and the ruddy shine of her hair, which is braided intricately in the style Queen Daenerys has made popular with the ladies of her court. The combination of colors makes her look like Dawn personified has chosen to grace his presence. Jon's sister always breaks her fast with him, but today, he senses, is different.   
  
"Good morning, sister," he greets, lifting an eyebrow. "Have you appointed yourself royal cook, to ensure that lemon cakes are served at every meal?"  
  
She flushes and looks away. "On our name days, in Winterfell, my lady mother always let us break our fast with whatever we wished. I did not know what you would wish for on your name day…"  
  
 _Because your lady mother would never suffer my name day to be acknowledged._ Jon's eyebrows tug downward with a frown--not so much at the slights he bore over so many years, but at the fact that they still pain him, every bit as much as the stab wounds Bowen Marsh inflicted on him, no matter how much time passes or how well he understands why Lady Stark was insulted by his presence among her trueborn children.   
  
"Forgive me, my King," Sansa mutters, her words almost lost in the flap of her skirts and long dagged sleeves as she swoops upon the table. "Your kingdom celebrates your name day with a tourney and feast. Lemon cakes for breakfast…how silly--"  
  
In a stupor, Jon watches her fingers clutch the edge of the serving platter like a hawk snaring prey with its talons. As she turns to carry it away in a swirl of silk, he snaps to alertness, catching her elbow. The sudden halt of her movement sends a half the lemon cakes sliding off the platter onto the woven rug. Sansa lets out a little squawk of dismay she bends to retrieve them, swatting away the raven as he hops down from his perch to nibble at the crumbs. Before he can stop himself, Jon laughs.   
  
"At least I have provided you with birthday amusement," Sansa sniffs. "I never thought to play the fool, but--"  
  
"Sansa…"   
  
He chokes back his laugh the moment he realizes she's crying and drops to his knees before her. She continues picking the lemon cakes off the floor, but he catches her hands and stops her.   
  
"You are not a fool, and it wasn't silly. _I_ was both. Forgive me--I may have turned out to be king's son, but my manners can be quite as rough as when I ranged beyond the wall…"  
  
And for all Sansa may have learnt the acuity of a bird of prey up there on the Eyrie, it's plain to him that she's a frightened little bird beating her wings against the bars of her cage. As he looks at her, he fancies he sees her pulse fluttering frankly in the hollow of her throat.   
  
It occurs to him he probably oughtn't be staring at the hollow of throat of his sister. Even if she is _not_ , in fact, his sister. He drags his eyes back up to Sansa's face, and finds her cheeks flushed.   
  
"I only wanted you to have the sort of name day you should have had, as a Stark of Winterfell," she says.  
  
For a moment Jon can't speak, for the tightening in his chest.   
  
Eventually, he finds the voice to say, "I have," and stands, pulling Sansa to her feet by her hands. He squeezes them, and feels the sticky cakes he forgot she is holding squish between their fingers. Grinning down at her, he says, "How many name days ended with your dress tasting more of your lemon cakes than you did, thanks to little sisters?"  
  
She frowns a little, and pulls away from him, and Jon fears he has hurt her again, with the reference to Arya. But as she wipes her hands clean on a cloth, she turns to him again with eyes as bright as a summer's day, and he thinks he could endure a hundred years of winter if he had those eyes to gaze into.   
  
"I'm pleased my brother enjoyed his name day food fight, but can't you think of a more fitting breakfast for a king?"  
  
"Bacon?" Jon suggests, and Sansa looks at him, askance, while the raven caws, "Corn! Corn!"  
  
"On _your_ name day, you greedy bird," says Sansa, draping the napkin over the back of a chair.   
  
Her skirts whisper as they brush against the hem of Jon's tunic as she draws suddenly near to him. He realizes just how tall she's grown in the years since he left Winterfell for the Wall and she for King's Landing.   
  
Tall enough that he scarcely need bend as she tilts her head up to touch her lips to his.  
  
She means it to be a brief kiss, just a peck, and draws back before it has scarcely begun. But Jon catches her by the arms and pulls her back against him and covers her mouth once more with his own. Her mouth opens in a small _o_ against his, and her gasp is a warm breath mingling with his, but then her hands fly up to touch his chin, his cheeks, feathery touches, and she kisses him back. His hands leave her arms and wrap around her slender waist, pulling her body close enough that her breasts swell against his chest and he can feel their hearts beating frantically against the cages of their ribs as he coaxes her lips apart with his tongue so that he can taste her.   
  
When the kiss ends, Jon's eyes grow wide as his eyes sweep over her and he realizes what he has done.   
  
"Sansa!" he cries, backing away. "Forgive me, I--"  
  
"There is nothing to forgive," she mumbles.   
  
"No, I mean--"  
  
As she averts her gaze down in mortification, she sees exactly what Jon means, and startles the raven on his perch with a chirp of laughter.   
  
"It seems I shall have to choose a new gown for your name day festivities," she says, noting the lemon icing fingerprints on her sleeves and sides--and back, Jon notes as she turns around. "No matter!" she calls over her shoulder as she flits from the room, grinning--as she never did whenever Arya dirtied her clothes. "It's a Stark name day tradition!"  
  
Jon stares at the door for a long time after she has pass through it, and when he slides his forefinger into his mouth to suck a blob of icing from it, he thinks that lemon cake tastes like Sansa.


End file.
